


Ecstasy and Darkness Drips

by TheDruidIsIn



Series: Kill For You [1]
Category: Horror Fandom, Slasher Fandom - Fandom, The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: F/M, I'll probably add more chapters, Oops, THERE BE FEELS HERE, This fic is not out to hurt you, bahms heelshire just needs hugs, but for now it's categorized as complete, mc is like part oc part reader insert part self insert, reader is a bit of a Slytherin, slasher fuckers rejoice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDruidIsIn/pseuds/TheDruidIsIn
Summary: The post that prompted this fic started off as follows: "Okay So, It’s The Boy, But If MC Was Aware They Were In The Movie And Also A Slasher Fucker", and that's basically what this is.  It's in the tags but I'll repeat it: MC is like part OC part reader insert part self insert.MC wakes up in the taxi at the start of the movie, quickly realizes she is following the timeline of the film in a parallel universe, and that she has taken Greta's place as MC. At first she works to adhere to the timeline where she can to keep things flowing as they should, and then, of course, she completely derails it.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Original Female Character(s), Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Series: Kill For You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693654
Comments: 18
Kudos: 247





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the tumblr post that inspired this fic: [https://dark-and-night.tumblr.com/post/190806906855/okay-so-its-the-boy-but-if-mc-was-aware-they ]. Basically I took this concept and ran with it. I couldn't help but write it out in a story, and here we are. Sort of a weird not-exatctly-self/reader insert//not-exactly-OC, written in first person in stead of second person.
> 
> I'm so, so sorry for anyone reading my Rick and Morty fic! I do intend to finish it, I've just been swamped at my job and I'm stuck on how to execute a certain plot point.

I.

I knew something was not as it should be even before I opened my eyes. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, half curled up into the corner with my head supported by a cushion, one arm tucked underneath. I’d gotten sleepy while I was working on the first draft of a new story of mine, so logically I should feel the universal soft but firm texture of one of the pillows that came with the couch, or the not-quite scratch of the upholstery. Instead, what I felt was cool, flat, and hard. There was the subtle sway of motion all around me that meant I was in a moving vehicle, so the surface flush to my face had to be glass. That meant my body was leaning against the door, my face pressed to the window.

My first, panicked thought was that I’d been drugged and kidnapped, that I was possibly even being _trafficked_. The second less alarming, but still worrying, thought was that I’d travelled somewhere while sleepwalking or blacked out. The latter two options had never happened before, and were therefore far less likely to happen spontaneously since I had no history of either, but those explanations were some of the only things that made logical sense. How else would I end up in a car, speeding down an unknown road? Perhaps if I’d been injured and someone decided to drive me to Emergency Care, but that meant a different kind of trouble for me. Slowly and subtly, in an attempt to avoid the driver—or anyone else that might be in the car with us—seeing that I was awake, I tried to assess myself, checking for any pain or discomfort, wiggling my fingers and toes, testing to see if I was bound.

To my immense relief, I didn’t seem to be either injured _or_ bound, which had to be good news. It did make me worry that there might be someone else in the vehicle who had means of ensuring my compliance, namely a weapon of some sort accompanied by the threat of death or bodily harm if I tried so much as daydreaming of escape. I tried to keep from hyperventilating as I weighed my options. I was hesitant to open my eyes, afraid of what I would see. Keeping them closed, though, meant I would continue to be in the dark, both literally and figuratively. After weighing my options for a moment, I decided to crack my eyelids open the tiniest amount and peer through my lashes. They were long and thick, something that caused an annoyance from time to time when they stabbed me in my eye. The women who muttered about how lucky I was not to need mascara really had no idea how much of a pain they could be. Situations like this did at least prove that the damn things could be useful.

I cast a furtive glance to the side and quickly found out that I was alone in the backseat. Feeling a bit more relieved at that, I feigned waking up and straightened up quietly, making my wandering gaze seem almost lazy. Even more tension loosened from my body when I saw the empty passenger seat, though the confusion from seeing the aged chauffeur behind the wheel soon replaced the feeling. My eyes caught his in the mirror, his gaze trained on my chest. He seemed to realize he’d been caught staring and looked awkwardly away. I took the opportunity to look down and saw that the first two buttons of the loose gray-patterned white blouse I was wearing had come undone, revealing just a hint of cleavage, a small swell of breast peeking out of the gap.

I felt my face heat up immediately. _Great. My taxi driver is an old closet perv,_ I thought to myself with a grimace. I comforted myself darkly that at least he stopped at looking and didn’t—as far as I knew—stoop to commenting or touching when he shouldn't. As unobtrusively as I could, I fixed the buttons and adjusted the hooded black shawl draped around my upper body, head ducking so that the cast a shadow that hid my face a bit. I could see that I also wore a gray skirt with white accents and black leather boots. I was a little worried that I couldn’t remember putting that outfit on, but I knew there were days I lost little details like that due to running on autopilot.

As soon as I finished with my buttons, I gazed out of the window to find us passing through a rural area. The road, full of large, winding curves, snaked between beautiful stretches of wooded area and open fields. I could see myself reflected in the clean pane of the window, looking the same as always: same eyes, dark like western cornflower; same thin and slightly pointed nose; same light freckles splattered across the bridge of my nose and my cheeks, with my birthmark by the corner of my mouth and my curly dark hair peeking out from underneath a scarf patterned black, white, and gray. Something about the situation—the pervy old driver, the scenery, the interior of the car—felt familiar. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at that moment. I patted myself down for pockets, delighted to find that both my skirt and shawl had some.

I fished my phone out of my shawl to check the time, relieved both that I still had it and that it appeared to be undamaged and decently charged, though my lock screen, an art piece of Thranduil that I really loved, had been changed to some generic kitten stock photo. Pausing long enough to shoot the driver a cautious look, I called out to him hesitantly. “Excuse me, but where are we?”

He glanced at me in the rear view mirror. “Nearly there, Miss, don’t you worry.”

I frowned slightly, not totally satisfied with the answer, but decided to derp around on my phone until we stopped somewhere. I changed the lock screen back to the artwork, which I found after a quick internet search for the artist’s Instagram. I really, _really_ hoped I wasn’t being kidnapped. If I was, the guy was either the nicest kidnapper in history or a total idiot. I mean, if I kidnapped someone I sure as all hell wouldn’t leave them unbound and with access to their phone to potentially escape or call for help. Then again, I’d have to jump out of a moving car, and we were, by the looks of it, in the middle of fucking nowhere. So I’d bide my time and hope I wasn’t about to be sold to some creep or cut into little pieces.

Twenty minutes later and we were pulling up before an imposing wrought-iron gate. As the driver got out and unbolted the metal doors, my eyes darted upward to check out our location and I felt myself freeze. _That house…. that house! It looks just like—but no, it can’t possibly be the same. I must just be conflating the two because of some similarities._ I forced myself to relax before I gave myself some sort of fit. The driver got back in and the car lurched into motion again, creeping slowly up a long drive.

Eventually, a large manor that I’d only seen previously on a screen came into sight. I sucked in a shocked breath, overcome with competing emotions. I was terrified I might be going mad, excited that something I’d only fantasized about might come true, worried that I was dreaming or being pranked. I really had to cut this insane train of thought out before it could go any further. _I absolutely, positively am not at the Heelshire residence, which I absolutely, positively did not recognize from watching the 2016 movie_ The Boy _fifty-seven times and memorizing the scenes and lines. Nope. Absolutely not._

I shuddered, not convinced in the slightest by my rebuttal. All of the similarities were stacking up—the car ride, along with the car and driver themselves; the gates; the manor. I swore to the old gods and the new that I might just faint if I went in to find the Heelshires, if I was introduced to _him_. Well, what would be presented as him, as Brahms.

_Wait, Brahms!_ I stared down at myself in a slight panic, the source an entirely new worry. What if Brahms rejected me? I wasn’t Greta Evans (or perhaps I was, or perhaps I had taken her place?), and he might think me dressed too frumpily, what with my typical scarf, my long skirt, and my shawl. She was light where I was dark, taller where I was shorter, straight-haired to my riotous curls, and her eyes were blue to my brown. What would he think of me? Would he like me, find me pretty, want me to stay? Would his parents?

Thoughts swirling as I worried my bottom lip between my teeth, I jumped, swearing softly under my breath, when the chauffeur, who I realized belatedly had gotten out again, knocked on my window. Despite being startled, when I looked into his wrinkled face I smiled politely.

“Apologies, Miss,” he told me sincerely, “I didn't know how else to wake you.”

I waved away the apology. “It’s perfectly fine. I was already awake, just caught up in my head, ya know?”

He grinned. “I do. I just wanted to let you know that the Heelshires had to step out for a moment. They beg your pardon, Miss, and ask that you wait in the parlor.”

I could feel the polite smile still plastered on my face even as I shrieked internally, both excited beyond measure and slightly freaked out and panicking. _Oh. My. Fucking. Gods. Somehow, some way, I’ve ended up in some parallel universe where I’m Greta, or I’ve replaced Greta. Go figure._ A sense of vertigo overcame me for the briefest of moments, but it soon faded. Maybe I was starting to accept this—or wanting to—more than I let on to myself. I wanted it to be true so badly, but logically speaking it was just bizarre.

I nodded to him, shielding my hands with my body as I grabbed my bag—which I noticed was my preferred over-the-shoulder type rather than Greta’s original one—and got out so that I could pinch myself unnoticed by him. My expression briefly wavered under the wave of stunned disbelief when it actually smarted. I couldn’t resist playing along a bit, especially to see where in the timeline I might be—or to see if I was Greta or her replacement. I echoed her first line to him, then internally held my breath. “It’s like something out of a storybook, isn't it?” I didn’t have to make any real effort to sound dazed, awed, or shocked when I was feeling a combination of all three, though, come to think of it, the original Greta might have been joking around with him. Unlike her, I didn’t make a move to pay the driver since I knew the Heelshires would be covering the fee, but for the sake of being polite, I still asked him what I owed him.

He answered me as expected. “The Heelshires have already taken care of that, and I put your things inside.”

I ducked my head in a small bow. “Thank you.”

After he closed the door, I began my walk up to Heelshire Manor. I jerked my hands into full view of my own eyes but still out of his line of sight and pinched myself harder, viciously twisting my skin in a way that was sure to leave a small bruise. I barely managed to contain my yelp of discomfort. _This is all definitely very real_ , I realized as my feet crunched over the gravel, which meant I definitely wasn’t dreaming. Did that mean my former life was the dream, or that I was simply deluded and in the midst of a psychotic break? But no, if I could wonder about whether or not I was in a psychotic break, it was highly unlikely I was having one. Being unaware of a break from reality kind of served as the hallmark of psychosis, and generally speaking, if I was psychotic I wouldn’t even consider it. I wouldn’t try to reason my way out of the situation, I’d take it at face value.

When I got to the door, I found it unlocked. I slipped inside, spotting my luggage nearby. Like Greta, I heard a noise from above, though I had an entirely different reaction: my pulse quickened with excitement. Remembering that Greta encountered Malcolm when she first arrived, I groaned internally, wondering if I could avoid the bland man altogether and use the time to freshen up. I shucked my shoes off and tiptoed around until I found the downstairs bathroom, then I drug my luggage inside and shut the door as softly as possible. I fished around inside my bags, immediately seeing more clothes that, now that I thought about it, resembled some that Greta wore in the film, although some were entirely different. With shaking hands, I pulled out my wallet from my purse and flipped it open, searching for my ID. I had to know if I was Greta.

A second later and I slumped against the wall in relief. I was _not_ Greta Evans—although I wasn’t _myself,_ either, which might be a bother, but oh well. At least it _did_ explain some things. It looked like I was taking Greta’s place as the main character, somehow retaining traits from both her and myself. It explained things about my clothes and phone, small details that in hindsight stood out more. I glanced at the ID again. _Violet Blackwood_ , the name read, from my home state and not Greta’s. I was still American, though.

I slid my ID back into its sheath and returned my wallet back to my purse. I hurriedly decided to doll myself up a bit once I relieved myself and washed my hands. I dug through “Violet’s” things again until I found a bit of makeup. I wasn’t one to overly fuss with it, but I did know enough to apply a subtle amount of eyeliner and blush and to roll on lipstick. I was finished in under five minutes with plenty of time to spare. I knew Greta had wandered around for several minutes after hearing Brahms—though she had no way of knowing that at the time—upstairs. I cracked the door open and peered outside, checking for Malcolm. With the coast clear, I hefted my luggage and purse up and schlepped up the stairs with the lot, knowing that Brahms would take the opportunity to steal my—Violet’s—shoes.

I deposited my luggage on the first landing, praying Brahms wouldn’t decide to nick _all_ of my belongings in one setting. I decided to explore the house a bit, a little fucked up over how much had stayed the same, from the rooms I remembered being depicted onscreen to the decor to the melancholy family portrait featuring a child Brahms. I made sure not to stay in one place too long or make a lot of noise, and to not to give away the fact that I knew Brahms had come back upstairs to watch me. I could feel his eyes on me, though I acted as if I couldn’t tell. Feeling a bit mischievous, I turned toward where I sensed he was and extended my arms above my head in a stretch, arching my back and pushing my chest out while a low, satisfied moan escaped my lips. Why not start teasing him early? Who knew how long it would take him to feel confident enough to appear to me, to _Violet_ , though I suppose now we’re one and the same.

Just to rub it in a bit more, I muttered something about my hamstrings and calf muscle bothering me before I turned and, with practiced ease, moved into a downward facing dog pose, my ass high in the air. My skirt fell toward my shoulders, riding up just above mid-thigh. The gaze focused on me had turned searing, and I’d hardly enacted my most devious tactics yet, though I planned to pull out all the stops until I had him in my bed. I knew he took an immediate liking to Greta—now Violet—and that part of it was physical attraction. I would use that to my every advantage. I hid the smirk that flickered briefly into existence as I straightened up. I exited the room, intent on more investigations when the voice I’d been dreading to hear called out to me. I turned to find Malcolm approaching, his eyes sparkling as he assessed me. “Hope I didn’t scare you,” he apologized.

“You didn’t.” Again, I summoned that practiced polite smile, though it reached no further.

“Good, good.”

Even though I knew who he was, I had to pretend otherwise. “And you are?” I tried to instill a sense of genuine curiosity, but in all honestly the man was plainer than dry, unseasoned chicken.

“I'm the grocery boy—grocery man. I own the store, actually.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “I see.” He shuffled awkwardly.

“I’m Malcolm by the way.”

“And I’m Violet,” I say, knowing I can’t introduce myself as myself or as Greta.

“You must be here for the nanny's job.”

_No, just for the family jewels,_ I snarked in my head, keeping it to myself. Aloud, I responded in the affirmative, stunned that the man didn’t check to see if I was a burglar. “Yes. I’m excited to be here. I’ve never been to England,” I supply, sure it’s true for both me _and_ Violet, just as it was for Greta.

Malcolm grinned toothily at me. “I've got some groceries to unpack downstairs, if you want to join me? I can give you a tour of such exotic locations as the pantry and bread bin, if that interests you?”

I both didn’t want to be rude outright and didn’t want to play into his flirting. I truly wasn’t interested in him. “I don’t mind helping you, but I’ve had pretty good luck finding things through exploration, so I might pass on the tour.”

A little of the sparkle in his eyes dimmed when he realized I wasn’t going to flirt back then, though he still carried on in a friendly manner. “All right, follow me then and we’ll head straight to the kitchen.”

I could feel it in my bones every time I went off script, every time I changed a little detail. I followed him to the kitchen, wondering how the story would evolve with _me_ behind the wheel, wondering how far I could toe the line in straying from the script. I allowed some of the conversation to pass as it had in the film. As a consequence, Malcolm interrogated me about being American and my reasons for coming to the Heelshire Estate, and I let him. I knew the moment was coming when he would do his stupid bit about being clairvoyant. He obviously wasn’t one, and it was just another bad attempt at flirting on his part.

“I'm usually so good at these things. I've got a touch of the gift.”

My response is mild, clearly indicating only polite interest and not a return of something similar to his own. “Oh?” It was a far cry from Greta’s original coy reply of ‘The gift?’, though it didn’t deter him nearly as much as I hoped.

Still, he gave me the same answer with what I’m sure he thought was a winning smile. “Prognosticator. Clairvoyant. Whatever you like to call it. I had a grandmother that read tea-leaves. My mother read palms, so…”

Trying not to roll my eyes, a snarky comment still slipped out, although Malcolm certainly didn’t seem to realize it was less that curious or coy. “Oh, and what do you read, crystal balls?”

Malcolm snorted, apparently happy I was still talking to him and totally oblivious to the fact that I wasn’t receptive. “Me? No, don’t be ridiculous.”

My eyebrow arched. “Oh, tea leaves and palms are perfectly good ways of divining the future, but you’re too good for crystal balls?” Clearly the man didn’t care about offending the good sensibilities of the witches and psychics.

He laughed, obviously taking my statement as a joke. “Yeah, well, that specialty was already taken, what of it?”

It was my turn to snort in reply. Apparently even he could be funny every once in a while. I was just glad that the slight change in script had spared me the annoyance of his lame ‘bubble gum’ blather. A moment later, I almost wished I’d stuck to it when he took a different track.

“My specialty is actually in freckles. If you'll allow me…. Let me show you.” With that, he stepped toward me, studying my face intently. I did all I could not to flinch back from him, not comfortable with him being so close to me. It might be my end goal to seduce Brahms, but that didn’t mean I wanted _other_ strange me in my space. “Yeah, I am gonna read your freckles, hold still.” When I twitched, he added, “I'm a professional, trust me.”

“Um…” This was getting awkward as fuck faster than the speed of light.

“What an interesting pattern here. I see that you're a writer, from Phoenix, Montana. It looks like you've come here to be inspired by the English countryside. To get away from the hustle and bustle of your life in the U.S. of A.”

I answered him honestly. “No.” His little spiel was just as wrong for me as it was for Greta, and given our conversation up until that point, we were definitely following her plot line, albeit with minor changes here and there along the way.

He flashed his teeth, still trying to be charming. “Close?”

My lips curled into a genuine smile. “Nope,” I popped the ‘p’, “Not at all.”

“Okay, one more try,” he beseeched me.

I huffed, but decided to humor him. “Fine, let's go for it.”

He tilted his head and stared more intently at my face. “Okay, okay, I see what went wrong. It's very…. It's very obvious now. I see a dark past. On the run from someone, are we? That's what it looks like.”

Internally, I knew both Greta and I had reasons to ‘run’, but did Violet? I mentally shook off the thoughts, once more not at all intending to share my real answer. “I’m afraid that’s zero for two, champ.”

“And I'm afraid that was my best attempt at flirting,” he confessed, as if his attempts weren’t at all transparent. “Believe it or not, I'm actually considered charming in this country.”

Wickedly, I decided to tease him. “Oh really? I wouldn’t have known.”

That got a laugh out of him. “Right? It's amazing that any of us manage to procreate at all really.”

My trademark dark humor reared its vicious head. “Well, considering the extent of British colonialism, you haven’t had all that much trouble.”

It took him a moment, but when he got it, he folded over with laughter. “That’s—oh bloody hell, you went in for the kill, didn’t you?”

I smirked. “Always. Seize the day—by the throat.”

That only fueled his amusement, and it took him a few moments to compose himself. I directed us back on script. “So what’s... what's the family like?” I knew, but how could I say that? So I had to play along, at least for some moments, to move things along and get what I wanted. A very Slytherin tactic, if nothing else. Any means to meet our ends.

“Well they're nice, you know. They’re...they’re very generous. As good a people as you'll ever hope to meet.”

“And their son, Brahms?” I promoted, guiding us along again, my own pulse a nearly palpable presence to me.

“Brahms?”

“Yes, Brahms,” I repeated, feeling a thrill run through me. _Brahms_. _Is he listening in right now?_ I didn’t necessarily sense him as being in the room with us, but I knew that he could listen in to conversations in other rooms, especially from the kitchen, without actually being inside that room. There were speakers strategically placed throughout the house, if I recalled correctly. 

“He is...I'm not sure quite how to explain it, but…”

I could hear the door open and close, and I knew Brahms’ parents were home. It didn’t take long for his mother to show up in the kitchen. “Mrs. Heelshire,” I greeted, bobbing in a half bow and flashing her a smile. A small spike of sadness bloomed at the thought that she and her husband would be, in effect, leaving Brahms all alone until I could make my move. I repeated the lines for this scene verbatim. “It's so nice to finally meet you.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Where are your shoes?”

Unlike Greta, I had an actual reason, besides wanting to allow Brahms a bit of mischief. “I apologize if I’ve offended you, Mrs. Heelshire. It's a habit. My family is one of the ones where it’s polite to remove your shoes so you don't track anything from outside into the house.”

She looked more appeased than I remembered her being on-screen. “Yes, well,” she readjusted herself with dignity, no longer puzzled or displeased, though sounding a bit haughty. “You don’t have to do that here.”

We excused ourselves from Malcolm, but I lingered, making sure she wasn’t eavesdropping before I sidled closer to Malcolm and whispered, “By the way, I’m engaged.” I didn’t wait to see the result of my little lie. Instead, I hurried after Mrs. Heelshire, who thankfully hadn’t noticed my momentary detour. We walked back to where my shoes had been left, despite the fact that I already knew they would have vanished by now, snatched up by nimble fingers and hidden for the time being.

“Brahms is very excited to meet you, Miss Blackwood. He's never met an American before.”

Once again, my cue to speak rang true to how I actually felt. “I’m very excited to meet him too.” And I was, and I would do everything in my power to make sure the real Brahms and I would be meeting face-to-face.

When we got back to the spot, I made a show of looking for my shoes. “Well that’s weird. I was sure I left my shoes right here.”

Mrs. Heelshire didn’t seem worried, dismissing the whole incident as insignificant. “They'll turn up. It's Brahms. He can be playful. I assume you brought other shoes?”

“Yes.” I had, in fact, stowed a spare pair in my purse while I was in the bathroom with this eventuality in mind.

“Well, then, let’s hurry up,” she sniffed impatiently. “We've kept them waiting long enough.”

I murmured a quiet agreement and stepped into them as she turned to leave. I followed her through the house into a different room. From the threshold, I had a clear view of a sharply dressed elderly gentleman kneeling next to a tall-backed chair and whispering, his body shielding the seat of the chair. The Brahms doll would be presented to me in the next twenty seconds, I was sure of it.

“Daddy?” Mrs. Heelshire marched over to the man, who rose and turned to face us at the sound of her voice. She joined him, blocking the chair even more from my sight.

“Miss Blackwood, allow me to introduce Mr. Heelshire.”

He acknowledged me by name (Violet’s, anyway). “Miss Blackwood.”

I curtsied politely, murmuring a greeting, which he returned.

“And this…” Mrs. Heelshire moved to stand behind the chair, while Mr. Heelshire simply shifted to stand sideways “...is our son, Brahms.”

Remembering with a wince that Greta had laughed, I quietly moved forward, not speaking until I knelt down directly in front of the chair, my eyes on the doll. For now, this doll would be the only way to interact with Brahms or to show him any affection.

“How do you do, my prince,” I greeted him softly, extending my hand to shake the small, porcelain hand of the miniscule Brahms replica. It was like ice to the touch. I withdrew my hand with care, mindful not to harm the doll. I looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire, who appeared to be both surprised and relieved. “I think we’ll get along just fine,” I told them.

Malcolm’s voice came suddenly from the doorway. “So you've met Brahms then?” He moved into the room, coming to a stop next to the chair. “How are you doing, Brahms?” He shook his hand as well, then paused as if he expected an answer. “Now, you take it easy on Miss Blackwood. She's traveled a long way just to meet you.” He turned to regard me over his shoulder, still friendly but more reserved without the flirting. He stood to his full height, switching to address the Heelshires. “I’ll be off then. The bill is on the table.” He nodded once at me. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Blackwood. Hope to see you on my next delivery.”

Mrs. Heelshire thanked him, to which he replied, “Of course.”

Once the door shut and I knew he’d gone, I turned to the Brahms doll and gently placed my hand on its small shoulder. “It's been so nice to meet you, Brahms. I hope you and I can be friends.” _And, perhaps, something else_ , I thought, thinking of the adult Brahms I knew to be watching. An image of his thick, brown, wavy tresses popped into my head, and I imagined running my fingers through his hair or tugging on it lightly as he moved within me, panting in ecstasy from behind his mask with each thrust. I thought about his locks woven between my fingers while I used his hair to guide him closer as he stroked my clit with his tongue. I felt a twitch and flood of warmth from inside my underwear and decided to let that train of thought die quickly. It wouldn’t do to get all hot and bothered in front of his parents before I even had a guarantee of my place at the manor.

As I pushed away all thoughts of the _very_ adult Brahms that I was completely aware of from my mind, Mrs. Heelshire spoke to her husband. “Daddy, will you please take Miss Blackwood’s things up to her room, please?”

I told him that I left them on the landing and he nodded in understanding before doing as his wife asked.

She turned to me next. “Miss Blackwood, we might as well get started. I have a lot to show you.”

Ah, the rules. Fun.

XXX

As we ascended the stairs, Brahms in her arms, Mrs. Heelshire started in on me. “You'll be all alone out here. Do you think you can manage?”

“We should be perfectly fine,” I replied. “But I appreciate you asking.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “Of course. I do have to warn you. We’ve had a number of potential nannies come through already. Brahms rejected them all.”

“That’s understandable. It really has to be the right fit,” I added in a sympathetic tone.

She glanced at me, my comment unexpected. “Yes, exactly.” She seemed a bit taken aback before she delivered the words I was expecting. “Though...the others weren’t nearly as young or as pretty as you.” I blushed, both embarrassed and pleased by the praise. I ha d been secretly afraid they would reject me for my looks since I didn’t look at all like Greta, but things seemed to be falling into place. I’d be able to stay and to get to know Brahms. Assuming, of course, that things stayed on track and he said yes.

We reached the top, and as soon as we went into his room, which looked exactly as it had in _The Boy_ , toy placement and all, she briskly delved into their list of rules for Brahms.

“You'll wake him at 7:00 each morning and you will dress him. You'll find his clean clothes behind you.” She strode over to the doll’s bed and laid him down gently.

I stepped forward with none of Greta’s hesitation. “Shall I go ahead and do a demonstration then?”

Mrs. Heelshire seemed pleased that she wouldn’t have to wait for me to cotton on to what she wanted.

“Yes. Please wake him up and dress him, Miss Blackwood. There's no better way to learn than by doing.”

I nodded, grabbed a set of clothing, and walked over to Brahms the doll with confidence. I gently jiggled his shoulder, leaning over to say loudly and clearly, “Rise and shine, my prince. Time to get ready for the day.” I lifted him up firmly but gently, thinking of my goddaughter from my own life, the one I didn’t share with Violet. I laid him on his back, unbuttoning his nightshirt with practiced ease, lifted his torso to slide it off, then carefully pulled his clean shirt over his head, pulling through one arm at a time. I swapped his pants in a familiar motion, learned from changing my goddaughter time and again. His little socks were next, then I scooped him up and combed through his hair with my fingers. “There, look how handsome you are, my prince.”

Mrs. Heelshire seemed…. well, more pleased than she had been with Greta, at any rate, but that wasn’t saying much when the woman was hard to please to begin with. She showed me her method of changing him regardless, but said mine was “passable”, and that some of the doll’s previous nannies had “handled him like a baby, almost too afraid to touch him.” She liked my confidence, but told me I didn’t have to change him on his back. I smiled and nodded, eager to get through everything else. If that meant enduring Mrs. Heelshire’s perfectionist tendencies, so be it. It would all pay off in the end, or so I hoped.

Soon we were discussing Brahms’ lessons. I of course realized that the reading was far more to the benefit (or entertainment, at least) of the Brahms in the walls, but it would be a good chance for me to check out their library. From the brief peek provided by _The Boy_ , the room housed many old or valuable books, and the bookworm in me itched to get my hands on them. Some of them were bound to be more technical or full of historical knowledge, but I also knew that some of them were old novels, tombs of mythology and folklore, and books of poetry.

“Brahms has three hours of lessons five days a week, and I like to start by reading some poetry. Do you know any, Miss Blackwood?”

“I do,” I nodded, before quoting, “ _Tyger Tyger, burning bright/In the forests of the night/ What immortal hand or eye/Could frame thy fearful symmetry_?”

“William Blake. Well, well.” Again, she seemed more pleased than she had with Greta, as far as I could recall, but not overly pleased, either. “Of course, it doesn't have to be poetry,” she continued, “Any of these books will do, but you must read in a loud, clear voice.”

“Yes, of course. Enunciation is everything.”

“Right you are. Now. Next is music appreciation.”

Just then, in his chair, the doll Brahms fell over. “Brahms!” Mrs. Heelshire scolded. “You must sit up straight, like a good little boy.” She fussed over him first before she resumed her lecture to me. “Music, Miss Blackwood. I don't know how Brahms would go on without his music. It's his world.” _Without it and the reading, his world would be silent,_ I thought. _It must be the closest thing to companionship he has when outsiders are present._ Mrs. Heelshire carried on in her instruction. “Of course, he likes it rather louder than I prefer, but it gives him so much joy I don't dare take it away from him.”

I nodded along dutifully. “Of course. I’ve always thought that music is like medicine for the soul.”

She blinked at me. “If anything, Miss Blackwood, young minds must be stimulated, their creative outlets encouraged and nourished.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

We transitioned to more rules around lunch, which passed rather uneventfully, aside from the opera music playing in the background, and my question about Brahms’ eating habits.

“Does Brahms have any dietary restrictions, food allergies, or intolerances I should know about? Lactose? Gluten? Peanuts? Is he a vegetarian?” I didn’t want to hurt him by accident, and poisoning him out of ignorance would severely hinder our chances to be together, not to mention possibly _kill_ him. My inquiry seemed to throw his parents off balance. They’d clearly not been expecting me to say _that_. They answered that no, as far as anyone knew he was as healthy as a horse and could eat almost anything, though he might have preferences.

At the end of the meal, I helped clean up the table, carrying the dishes into the kitchen. Out of courtesy, I asked Mrs. Heelshire what I should do with the leftover food. “We don't throw any food out in this house, Miss Blackwood. This is a country house. Do you know what that means?”

“No frivolous waste,” I answered with confidence. “Everything is consumed or saved, and you don’t have the luxury of being careless about your resources, or lax about any food waste building up. Wild animals or rats are a higher possibility, and they’d be drawn by the smell of any food in the trash. They might even break into the fresh stores if they got into the house.”

Not for the first time, she seemed at a loss, clearly taken off guard by what they would no doubt see as my “astuteness”, with no knowledge of my advantage. I knew that her real reasoning had more to do with saving the portion for the real Brahms, but once again I had to keep my knowledge to myself.

“Why, yes, actually,” Mrs. Heelshire agreed slowly. “It means we are in constant battle with the outside elements. Weather, plants, vermin—especially vermin. Miss Blackwood, you didn’t miss a beat on that. And so we take certain measures against them.”

Mr. Heelshire came in with the doll—Little Brahms. Mrs. Heelshire reached for him, greeting him warmly. “Hello darling.” I wondered if the real Brahms liked being called _darling_ , or how he felt about me calling Little Brahms _my prince._

“Mr. Heelshire will explain the rest of your duties.” And just like that, we were dismissed and she was leaving with Little Brahms.

He showed me where to put the leftovers, then took me out to see the traps. He warned me about not using the fireplaces as we went along, as well as reminding me the importance of us keeping up the house (and the traps).

The rest of the time flew by after that, until quite suddenly I found myself watching them put him to bed, Mr. Heelshire’s words echoing in my mind. _What I'm trying to say, is that whatever it might look like on the outside, our son is here. He's very much with us. Do you understand, Miss Blackwood?_ I’d told him yes, and even if he didn’t know it at the time, I meant it. My traitorous thoughts strayed again to the real Brahms. While his parents resembled the actors who played them, they weren’t the same, which meant he wouldn’t be either. I wondered not for the first time what he might actually look like under that mask of his.

I vaguely realized that the Heelshires were saying goodnight to Brahms, their voices drifting out into the hallway as they moved through their family prayer. The countdown to his decision was nearly upon me. They fluttered about Little Brahms, cooing over Brahms being a ‘good boy’ and a ‘gentleman’. I leaned in to give my own goodnight. “Sweet dreams, my prince.”

Mrs. Heelshire cleared her throat, turning her head to regard me over one shoulder. “Could you give us a moment alone to speak to Brahms privately?”

I nodded. “Of course.” The time had come. I backed away, trying to seem as normal as possible as I stepped further into the hallway. Mr. Heelshire got up to close the door. Once alone, I slumped against the wall, half-afraid Brahms would reject me. I don’t know what he found so fascinating about Greta, but I wasn’t her, and neither was Violet, for that matter. Would he even still choose us? Did they use the same lines with all of the women they interviewed?

I soon discovered that I needn't have worried. When the door opened and I saw the Heelshires emerge, each stunned, I knew, even before Mrs. Heelshire said the words.

“He wants you, Miss Blackwood. He’s chosen you, if you'll have him.”

She enveloped me in her arms, momentarily surprising me, since I’d forgotten that she embraced Greta in the corresponding scene. _That’s right, they’re going to leave. Soon, I’ll be all he has. I’ve found my place here._ Over her shoulder, I allowed myself a second small, self-satisfied smirk. Excellent.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone with Brahms in the house at last.

II.

Brahms threw a tantrum the morning his parents were meant to leave for vacation. The _real_ Brahms came out of the walls and tore apart his room. I kindly let Mrs. Heelshire know that I would pick up the room, and that I only wanted her and Mr. Heelshire to enjoy their long-deserved rest, since they hadn’t traveled in a while. To my surprise, she agreed, and soon the two were loading their luggage into the car and leaving behind copies of the rules for me. I intended to follow them to the letter. I knew how important they were to _him_ , and that not doing so would distress him. Given my plans, I didn’t want to risk making him shut down before we even got a chance to talk. There was also, of course, Mr. Heelshire’s warning. _“Be good to him, and he’ll be good to you. Be bad to him, and…”_

I winced. I knew he likely wouldn’t physically harm me, but the havoc he might wreak on the house, the mischief and pranks, the rearranged and hidden items, not to mention the messes…yes, I’d be careful with his feelings. He had other ways of making his displeasure known besides hurting me or yelling at me, and nearly all of them involved antics similar to the Weasley twins Fred and George. In fact, the only thing I really wasn’t looking forward to was Malcolm’s weekly visits. I didn’t know about his character, or how long my invisible, and in reality, non-existent, fiancé might stave off any advances from the man. No, I most certainly would _not_ enjoy our alone time together. Though really, I assumed that if he tried forcing himself on me, Brahms would intervene, but I couldn’t depend on that. I’d have to carry around some weapon of my own, but I’d figure out those logistics later.

The closing of the front door seemed to echo loudly through the manor around me. Perhaps I heard the finality in it, knowing what I did about Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire’s “holiday” plans. I felt a pang or guilt over not trying to convince them to cancel that part of their trip, but I also knew that they were weary, tired of living, and, if I were honest with myself, that it might jeopardize my own place here, might prevent me from ever meeting Brahms properly at all. Was it selfish? Quite possibly, and very Slytherin to boot: any means to meet the ends. But on the other hand, I had no idea what such a large contradiction to the timeline would do, how events might change drastically for the worse.

I shivered, suddenly overcome with the feeling of Brahms watching from the walls again. I’d always been able to sense people to some degree, and it only seemed to have intensified over the years. With Brahms, though, it was like an electrical current, a shift in the atmosphere. Maybe it was because of how focused he was on me, or maybe it was because I was already hyper-aware of my situation, but I could tell when he was nearby or watching from the wall. I cradled Little Brahms close, his thin doll’s legs on either side of my hip. I looked down into the tiny porcelain face, conscious of my audience, and stage-whispered, “Would you like to know a secret, my prince?”

I paused, as if listening to him chatter, then nodded. “Okay, here it is: I lied to Malcolm earlier about my relationship when he was flirting with me. I’m not engaged to anyone. I’m not even dating anyone right now. I just thought he was being overbearing, and besides, he looked a bit boring.”

I made my tone imploring. “You’ll keep my secret, won’t you, my prince?” As was standard, I gave Little Brahms time to “reply”, then kissed the top of his head.

I carried Little Brahms into the kitchen with the real Brahms staying close by to us. I set him down gently at the kitchen table, then went about gathering ingredients. Before long, I’d started preparations to bake a batch of cookies, chatting to him as I did so. “I used to bake all sorts of things with my grandmother: cookies and cakes, cupcakes and muffins, cornbread and brownies.” I told him my favorite kinds of desserts (cheesecake, lava cake), my favorite flowers (foxglove, iris), my favorite colors (green, silver). I told him that I loved the sound of the rain, that I loved the Walt Disney movies _Brave, Frozen,_ and _Moana_ , that I could speak three other languages. All the while, Brahms listened in the walls and I acted as if I were telling all those things to Little Brahms at the table. 

Eventually the cookie tray was ready to go in the oven. I warned him not to take them out until they were done or they’d be no good to eat, and also that he could burn himself very badly if he tried without my help. I told him very sternly to please stay put while I got a surprise for him out of my room, that I’d be right back. My warnings to the real Brahms given to prevent any mischief in the kitchen while I was temporarily absent, I ran upstairs to my room. I returned with my well-loved copy of _The Hobbit_ , then I pulled the doll into my lap as we sat at the table to wait. I made a show of displaying what book I had, then I cracked it open, cleared my throat, and started on the first page. _“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort….”_

That night, after I lay Little Brahms to rest, I decided to put part of my plan into motion. On the landing, I stretched much like I had that first day, my chest, and later my ass, facing the wall. Being that I was supposed to be “alone”, I figured it wouldn’t come off as weird if I were to walk around topless, maybe even bottomless or naked, in the evenings. I knew Brahms was watching me even though I’d put his doll counterpart to bed. I could still feel his intense gaze on me. So I made a show of yawning, of unwinding the ribbons wrapped around the ends of my two thick braids, working my hair—which I didn’t cover in the house—loose, and of lazily pulling my shirt over my head. I didn’t really need to rebraid my hair yet, but I wanted him to see it.

The cool air in the hallway made my nipples firm up immediately. I could almost imagine that I heard a small gasp, but I ignored it in favor of stretching again, this time with my chest bare. I scrubbed at my face tiredly, allowing my hands to drag down my body to my breasts. I continued on to my room, where I left the door open as I stripped completely, depositing my clothes in the hamper and the ribbons on my nightstand. There was a creak that could have been the house shifting or could have been Brahms.

I retreated to the bathroom his parents assigned me with a hair tie in hand, leaving the door open. I turned on the tap in the stub, switched over water flow to the showerhead, and adjusted the water until it was warm enough to get in, then stepped under the cascading stream. I sighed in relief, immediately relaxing into the warmth of the water. I don’t know how long I simply let the water wash over me, muscles loosening one by one until finally I stood there completely content. Without the elder Heelshires around to serve as an awkward impediment, my mind drifted to the fantasy I’d envisioned the day before in the kitchen. My left hand drifted downward until it was between my legs. I was still so worked up from then and from earlier in the day that I probably needed at least two orgasms to sleep. I dipped two fingers of that hand inside myself, using the other to rub at my clit as I leaned against the wall. I wondered if Brahms was watching from the hall, able to see me touch myself through the open door, or if he was behind the wall directly by the shower. I wondered if he was hard, if he’d pulled his cock out of his pants to stroke it. I’d barely touched myself two minutes to that thought before I came violently, legs shaking. Once I took a few minutes to compose myself, basking in the steam created by the heat of my shower, I straightened from where I’d sagged against the wall and actually showered, ready now for my encore performance in my room.

I rather quickly brushed my teeth and ran a bit of leave-in conditioner through my hair before I wove it into one thick braid. I walked the short distance back to my room slower than was strictly necessary, giving Brahms, who I felt watching as soon as I stepped out of the bathroom and into the hall, a chance to see my nude form. Back in my room, I grabbed my lotion and began methodically applying it, hands running over my sides, up my legs, around my breasts. I bent over with my back toward the stretch of wall that I thought he was watching from, which of course gave him an eyeful. Finally, I approached my bed, crawling onto it with my ass in the air. I grabbed my pillow (which I’d covered in a satin pillowcase), flopped down, and rolled over, sprawled carelessly with my legs spread.

Without any preamble, I lowered my right hand to my clit, rubbing slow circles on it. I ran my left hand up my side to my breast, gently teasing my nipple. I let my mind wander until I settled on the fantasy of Brahms fucking me hard and fast on the edge of the bed with my legs tossed over his shoulders. In my mind’s eye, it was his hands on my clit and breast, his face intent, his eyes wild. I had one hand on his chest, the other on his face as he loomed over me. With that fantasy at the forefront of my thoughts, I came quickly for the second time that night.

I dropped my hand from my breast and pushed three fingers into myself past my knuckles, fingering myself as I continued touching my clit. I was slick from both new arousal and my recent orgasm, and was getting a little sensitive, but I kept going, picking up my pace as I imagined Brahms bending me over my bed and taking me from behind. In the blink of an eye, I came so hard that I couldn’t stop jerking and trembling, my entire body spamming as if I was seizing, my vision edged in sparkling blackness as a warm rush of fluids gushed out to coat my thighs. I soon went limp, and before I knew it I was drifting off to sleep in the same position on top of the comforter, fingers still buried within myself.

I lay there bonelessly in a contented, satiated daze, my last, fuzzy thoughts speculating about Brahms. Did he touch himself, and if he did, did he come? Did he have to choke back a gasp to keep me from hearing him? Did his pearly cum explode out over his fisted hand while he jerked off? I was so aroused at that point that that particular train of thought had me coming _again_ without even touching myself, my body nearly convulsing and a low moan leaving my throat.

I fell asleep soon after. If Brahms had emerged then to join me, I probably would have blacked out outright the next time I came.

XXX

When I woke up that morning, a little cold and stiff from falling asleep outside of the covers and laying in the same pose all night long, part of me wondered what it said about either of us, that he most likely got off on watching me, in his mind unbeknownst to me, and that I got off on being watched without him knowing I was aware of his presence or touching me even once, that the mere thought of him without the help of my hands had made me come?

XXX

I had a secondary plan of action outside of giving Brahms a good show each night after my showers. Outside of his three hours of “lessons” during the week, I made a point of spending time with Brahms doing distinctly _nonsexual_ acts as well, in an attempt to both show him that I cared and to seduce him emotionally and intellectually as much as I did sensually and sexually. I found myself indulging him and doting on him often by continuing to leave him baked goods that always vanished like clockwork, and either playing popular songs on the radio I bought in town, or songs from my own playlists. The latter depended a bit on the weather, since the only charger I possessed that could actually function here was solar powered.

In addition to the music and the baking, I kept up our casual reading time for _The Hobbit_ , and when we finished it, I read from _The Lord of Rings_. The rest of the trilogy was next, with plans for _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ and _Through the Looking Glass_ , and after that, _The Wizard of Oz_. I compiled a list of newer series as well: _Harry Potter_ , _Eragon_ , _Discworld, A Song of Ice and Fire, The Lunar Chronicles._ I even brought out my tarot cards to teach him a bit about them. When I would change the doll, I’d sing softly to him, just as I would when I did the dishes or laundry.

By the end of the week, when I woke up on Saturday morning, I was confident that I was starting to gain his favor or interest, if not yet his trust and affection, by my overt attempts at bonding. I intended to keep up my doting and indulgent behavior, as much as I intended to continue the intimate moments we were indirectly sharing with each other. Today, however, I wanted to sleep in. My traitorous body had woken up early anyway, damn it all, but it wasn’t anything an orgasm couldn’t overcome. I sunk into a peaceful second slumber for another hour or two before I snapped awake at the half-asleep realization that Malcolm might come over today—today, or tomorrow, I wasn’t sure. I was just told it would be “once a week” for a delivery.

I sprang into action, instantly awake. My legs were a little weak when I put weight on them, so I staggered around for a minute or so as my muscles activated and my pressure and circulation corrected themselves. I released my hair from its pineapple, my braids falling free, then quickly tied them back with simple, loose knots to keep them out of my face and off of my clothes. I grabbed a long lilac dress to pull on, stored my phone in one of the pockets, and slipped my feet into the house shoes nearby. I tucked a simple triangle scarf into my other pocket to use during Malcolm’s visit if he showed up today, and to wear when I went outside, before I slid my arms into a different hooded sweater than the one I wore when I arrived.

Rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I shuffled to Little Brahms' room, where I quickly “woke him up”, changed him, and collected him for the day. With the doll in my arms, I made my way downstairs and into the kitchen for breakfast. I tried to give the real Brahms a little bit of variety, saying out loud that there were plenty of leftovers if he got hungry. The real Brahms, or course, probably just thought I was humoring his parents, but eventually I hoped he could look back on moments like this and realize how much I cared. If we ever got to that point, that is.

I ate mostly in silence, cleaning up for myself afterward and putting away Brahms’ leftovers. After I pulled my scarf out and donned it, I took Little Brahms into my arms, cooing to him about what a good boy he was and how we were going for our daily walk through the property and to get the mail. I hoisted the doll high on my hip and set out, deciding to explore the grounds some more before I checked the mailbox. I’d been walking around different pieces of the property each day, trying to familiarize myself with it. The gardens were beautiful and the woods serene, though there was that one morbid moment two days prior when I found Brahms’ grave. I had stared down at it morosely, infinitely glad that he’d actually survived, though regretful that he’d been so socially isolated for so many years. After a while, I couldn’t take standing near the headstone any longer, so I’d gone back to the house.

Today, I ambled aimlessly for about twenty minutes before finally backtracking for the mail. When I arrived at the mailbox, Malcolm was just pulling up to the gate in a dark truck. He smiled and waved when he saw me, his friendliness clearly not affected by my supposed engagement, though hopefully the flirting had ended. He rolled down his window, calling out to me. “Need a lift?”

I shrugged. “Sure, why not? Little Brahms and I have already had our walk for the day.”

He seemed to just then notice the doll balanced on my hip like a human child. A strange expression passed over his face, but he refrained from making any rude comments, if indeed any came to mind. “Right, well, might as well get in then.”

“All right. Let me grab the mail then while you get the gate.” I collected it—the local paper, a monthly update of the accounts and holdings, reports on investments, things like that. Mr. Heelshire had taken me aside before they left and told me what to expect as far as documents mailed in and maintenance involved for the property, in addition to Malcolm’s delivery of food and my week’s pay. A small cleaning staff came once a month on the last Saturday and Sunday to keep up the house, and there was an every-other-week rotation of someone to keep up the grounds.

I waited to the side while Malcolm pulled through the gates, closed them behind him, and then got in the truck with him. I settled Little Brahms into my lap. He watched out of the corner of his eye, the strange expression reappearing. “So you carry the doll around with you?”

I nodded, following it with a verbal confirmation. “Yes. Why?” I looked at him, realizing after a moment that to others, it might seem strange to comply with the Heelshires’ strange demands once they were away.

He looked over at me as the truck trundled up the drive, bemused. “You’re not just taking the piss with me, are you?”

“What, like, joshing you or pulling your leg?” I shook my head. “No. I’ve been following their rules. He goes everywhere with me, except to the bathroom or to bed.”

This apparently confused him. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask: why?”

A genuine smile worked its way into my face as I unconsciously smoothed down Little Brahms hair. “Well, there’s no real reason not to. It gives me something to do, and I’m getting paid well for it.”

“Well, yes, but—” He stopped himself, regrouped. “I guess I’m just a little curious, is all. They’re not home. You could—you could just do whatever you wanted. I mean, Brahms is a doll, he’s not going to tell them.”

_Oh, if only he knew the truth._ I wasn’t worried about anyone snitching on me to Brahms’ parents. I wanted to lure in the real Brahms with honey. You always caught more flies with honey than vinegar. Disregarding his schedule and ignoring him would only put distance between us, the exact opposite of what I wanted.

“They’re a sad, haunted older couple who are still in mourning, grieving over their dead child,” I stated carefully, despite the fact that Brahms wasn’t listening in at the moment. “Doing this honors his memory, and it makes them happy. Plus, it’s all they have left.” I knew Greta had come to be sympathetic because of her own miscarriage. I don’t know if Violet had had any children, but I hadn’t. Still, it had to be extremely painful. It was the best explanation I could give Malcolm at the moment. Logical, yet also emotional, and best of all, true.

It took him nearly until we had pulled up to the house to respond. “I suppose you’re right,” he finally offered as a reply.

We went in together. I carried some of the groceries in each arm, held in place by my wrists, with Little Brahms once more balanced on my hip. We took everything to the kitchen, placing it on the table. I set Little Brahms into one of the chairs and started putting away the supplies. I stowed the bread away in the bread box for the second time since my arrival, arranging it so the oldest bread was at the front and could be used first. When I turned to grab some of the fresh vegetables, I found Malcolm staring at me. I blinked at him. “What?”

He jerked his head as if to dislodge something. “Nothing, just…. you knew where the bread was the last time as well.”

I blinked again, wincing internally when I figured out what he meant. _Shit. Fuck. Damn. Lie, Violet, lie!_ “The grandmother of one of my friends back in the states had an old house. They kept a bread box.”

To my immense relief, that seemed to appease him, and whatever questions that had plagued him abated. For now, at least. Maybe my “oddness” would make him rethink his attraction to me. _One can only hope._

As we restocked the kitchen, we also took inventory and tossed any leftovers that Brahms and I hadn’t eaten yet into a bag to be taken away by Malcolm. The man in question was quiet at first, but when he paused to hand over the envelope containing my pay, he said, “Aren’t you the least bit curious about—about any of this? Surely it must seem strange to you? The doll, the food…”

Again I used the truth—or part of it, anyway—to my advantage. He needed a reason as to why I was so accepting of all the madness, and while I couldn’t be totally honest with him, as there were certain things I needed to omit, I did have _some_ ammunition with which to appease him. I shrugged as I tucked the envelope full of money into my pocket. “I found the grave.”

It had the desired effect. He became less suspicious and more understanding. “Oh.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I see. So your comment earlier in the truck. That’s why…right.” He nodded to himself “So you know about the fire, then?”

I nodded. “Yes. When he was eight.”

“It’s what led to all of... _this_.” Malcolm gestured at Little Brahms. “It _is_ all harmless, just a way to cope. I can't imagine what it must be like to lose a child.”

I nodded mutely, glad I didn’t have to say more. Simple crumbs of truth seemed like they would suffice for now. It wasn’t really deception, since I hadn’t lied to him yet, but before things were over, I might have to. “Yeah. Just like I said before. It’s sweet, and it’s sad.” I shrugged. “Besides, I have to believe that Brahms is here with me. Otherwise, I’m all alone.”

This ended up a fatal error on my part. He stepped forward, suddenly earnest. “Well, you’re not all alone, are you? You’ve got me.”

I couldn’t help but back up a little, my hips bumping into the counter, as a wave of panic washed over me. I’d never been comfortable with most men being that close to me, and despite the fact that Brahms was nearby, I could feel an adrenaline rush start to slam through my system, a byproduct of my fear. I didn’t _think_ Malcolm would hurt me, but I also didn’t want to find out that hard way if he would.

Malcolm seemed to realize the effect he’d had and carefully put some distance between us, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted…. I didn’t want you to think that you were totally isolated.”

I gave him a thin-lipped, brittle smile. “I—I understand.”

The rest of his time there was awkward, if still friendly. He tried enticing me with a night on the town, jokingly calling it a “professional courtesy” and “a duty”, but I politely declined. I explained that I was still getting settled into my new routine, but that another time might be better, and perhaps we could hang out with his friends so I could build a local social group. I was really just trying to prevent it becoming a date, if it happened at all. We parted on good terms, with him whistling a cheerful tune.

That night, I fell asleep in Brahms’ old room, on his bed.

I’d been reading from _The Lord of the Rings_ again, propped up against the headboard with Little Brahms cradled in my lap like a small child, his head leaning against my chest. Holding the china doll so close in the cold estate felt a bit like cuddling a toddler with hypothermia, but I still held the doll close. My first indication of being sleepy was the heaviness of my eyes. I blinked it away, determined to finish the chapter before turning in. Brahms' presence—the man in the walls—was almost palpable for me. I really didn’t know how other people couldn’t feel him watching. The second indication that I should probably just go the fuck to sleep was when my head bobbed up suddenly from being crooked down at an odd angle. I figured I must have dozed off. I yawned and rubbed at my eyes, frowning as I squinted down at the page. “There’s not that much left, Brahms. I’m going to try to finish this chapter before I turn in.”

I kissed the top of Little Brahms’ head and continued reading to Brahms, finding it more and more difficult to concentrate. My damn traitorous body let me down for the second time that day. I dozed off again, but this time I felt the insistent tug of sleep pull me under the surface of consciousness. I don’t know how long I slept when I came to, just on the border between consciousness and unconsciousness, with a certain awareness, when suddenly I knew without opening my eyes that I was not alone in the room. Not just that Brahms was watching, but that he was _in_ his room with me, _outside_ of the wall.

I kept my breathing the same and my eyes closed, not moving a muscle. The sound of quiet breaths from another body reached my ears, then a sensation like an electric current ghosting over my skin as his fingers, _Brahms’ fingers_ , brushed against my skin, gently removing the book from my hands. I heard a small _thump_ as he placed it on his nightstand. Then I felt him gently ease me back into a more comfortable position and place a blanket around me. Every accidental brush of his fingertips was like fire. My nerves wanted me to tremble, to shiver, but I clamped down on those impulses. _How torturous it was not to be able to lean into that touch!_ I hadn’t been that close to him before and didn’t want to scare him off. It was too soon to make my move. I needed to wait a little while longer, despite what I might want. One month, three months, six: I knew I’d have all the time in the world with him since his parents never planned on returning from their holiday. I had the time to be patient with and for him, so I would do both.

I heard him leave me about two minutes later. I got the impression that he was making sure I was all right before he left: that he had to reassure himself that I was fine, that I was still there with him. _Or maybe he even just wanted to drink in the sight of you in his bed._ Those thoughts probably amounted to no more than wishful thinking on my part, _especially_ the last possibility, but my heart squeezed with hope all the same.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Brahms.

III.

My second to fourth week at the Heelshire Estate passed mostly like the first, including the awkward visits with Malcolm that were, somehow, turning into an awkward and uneasy friendship, though nothing else. I wasn’t Greta, and I didn’t intend to follow in her footsteps. Having no natural chemistry with the man proved useful. It meant we could spend hours alone together without the looming tension of mutual attraction, and for me, it came as a relief.

As more time went on and the weeks turned to months, I knew with increasing certainty that the real Brahms was growing fonder of me. I baked sweets for him constantly, read fantasy and sci-fi novels to him, and sang to him and played different kinds of music for him. On top of that, I always followed the schedule and the rules. It all culminated in me eventually starting to find small gifts—jewelry, crystals, flowers, or feathers—left in places I’d find them, dishes washed and clothes laundered while I slept, and my shoes returned. It was clear that he was being sweet to me as best he could without revealing himself.

Some other things of mine went missing. Many times they would reappear only to be replaced by the absence of something else, a bracelet here, an earring there, a scarf. My hairbrush disappeared for an entire week, and when I washed my hair I had to get the tangles and knots out by hand. It was by far one of the more inconvenient thieveries of his, but at least it _did_ show back up in the end. One shoe went missing out of a pair but not the other. It reappeared, but then one of my hair ties and my eyeliner disappeared. At one point, I lost an entire outfit, dress, scarf, and all, while at another I even lost a pair of underwear I’d carelessly tossed aside before a shower. _That_ garment (along with that missing outfit) didn’t return to me, and was one of the more amusing items to be “misplaced”.

Tonight I sat cross-legged in my underwear on top of my comforter, painting my fingernails a vivid blood red. Four months into my stay, I’d grown so comfortable being topless or naked while doing mundane things like this that it hardly registered anymore. I put the last touches to my second coat of polish, capped the bottle and blew lightly on my nails. _Brave_ was streaming on my phone via my data plan, since there was still no Wi-Fi and likely never would be. It was an interesting movie to be playing given the circumstances, that was for damn sure. Brahms’ parents had just killed themselves last month, and I don’t think he was nearly over it. He stayed by my side near-constantly now, gravitating toward his only possible human interaction. I can’t say I minded, given my plans. As much as I genuinely _did_ want to soothe his distress, as much as I wanted to hold him while he wept, smooth his hair back and kiss his forehead, I also knew that playing comforter to him would strengthen my position. Was it any small wonder I’d always been caught between Hufflepuff and Slytherin whenever I took a sorting quiz? As much as I genuinely felt for him and wanted to help him, I also saw _exactly_ where we were and how the situation was to my advantage. It could help me get exactly what I wanted.

I laid back with my hands clasped across my stomach so my nails could dry without being touched or hit by something. I knew this would be a long game in some ways, but I also knew how much Brahms would be enamored with the person he chose from the start. Everything I’d done up to this point in time would have only solidified those feelings toward me. And yet a part of me chafed under the weight of waiting for so long. _Give him time_ , I’d said. _Let him get to know you, the real you, not just his first impression of you. Make yourself a friend_. But now, knowing what I knew, feeling what I felt, wanting what I wanted, it was growing more difficult by the day to refrain from introducing us. I decided to at least give it another month, with the ultimate goal of six as a benchmark.

If Brahms hadn’t shown himself after six months, I’d “accidentally” come face to face with him one way or the other. But could I last that long? I knew he was shy, and perhaps even on the spectrum, but damn, we’d both be old if I left it up to _him_ to come meet _me_! My face scrunched up with displeasure. No, I couldn’t wait indefinitely. _Hmmm, perhaps tomorrow night I can—tomorrow night? So much for your six-month plan, then…_

As I waited for my nails to dry, I came to a decision, one that leaned more toward being an acknowledgment of my own shortening patience. As I added a third coat, I considered how I’d carry it out. As I applied the top coat, I wondered when the best time would be to do it. I extended my legs so they hung off of the edge of the bed, stretching my body out to its full length with my feet dangling in the air. I swung them back and forth absentmindedly. I would start searching for an entrance into the walls tomorrow. Carefully, of course. Subtly. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. No, I had to worry about tipping him off or scaring him. There were things I simply shouldn’t _know_ , that I couldn’t let on that I did. For a while, at least. I couldn’t show my hand yet.

I knew for a fact that there had to be a way in via his room. I distinctly remembered scenes from the film of him going in and out of his room, without use of the door connected to the hallway, to move Little Brahms around. I also knew that there was a way to access the passageways in the walls via a few of the closets, as well as the room with the pool table, but Brahms had _made_ an entrance in the latter. His room or the closets would be the best bet to start. I didn’t know where the door was in any of those places, but at least in the case of his bedroom, I could suss it out under the pretense of looking his room over since I hadn’t done that very much during my stay. I’d spent time in his room reading to him, and I’d slept in there intentionally once or twice for stolen moments of nap time, but I had never spent extensive time there. With that in mind, I sat up and examined my finished nails, admiring the vibrant crimson sheen.

I’d start my search tomorrow.

XXX

“What a nice room you have, Brahms.” My sharp scan of every nook and cranny of his room was masked by a thin veneer of cheer. I poked around inside his bureau drawers, picked amongst his toys, peered inside his trunk, and peeked inside his closet, the last of which was the only viable option for a doorway, but had to be thrown in with less suspicious actions so I came across as curious at best or nosy at worst. I didn’t exactly want to advertise the fact that I was aware there were secret passages in the wall, let alone that I was trying to get into them and was aware of his presence there.

In his closet, I found exactly what I was hoping to. I spotted the door. It was a well-hidden, incredibly subtle design, but I saw it while under the pretense of checking out his clothes and things. I was being extra careful not to be obvious, since I could sense the real Brahms mere inches from me on the other side of the door. Was he as nervous to be so close to me as I was to be close to him? Was he rife with anxieties, too?

I pushed away those distractions, turned out the light and closed the door. I’d return that night after my shower.

As it turns out, I’d gotten too impatient and couldn’t wait.

XXX

I hesitated inside of Brahms’ closet, sheepishly admitting to myself for the third time that I knew if I found a way into Brahm’s lair tonight, I’d use it to get in, six months be damned. A few droplets of water slipped past the edge of the drying cap covering my head to drip from my wet hair down my neck. I clutched onto the towel wrapped around my body with one fisted hand, the other hesitantly feeling the seams of the door and wondering what mechanism would open it. I had one of our latest books, _Eragon_ , tucked under one arm, along with my phone. Perhaps I was being foolish and it only opened from the inside? Perhaps he left it cracked when he came out to do his mischief, then snuck back in and closed it before I noticed?

No, there had to be a way. I frowned in concentration, trailing my fingers along the outline of the door. Was there a mechanism? Did I just need to apply pressure, to slide a panel out of place, to hit some sort of button or lever? _Fuck_.

I ran my fingers along the seam again, but this time I dug my fingers in and tugged. To my surprise, it gave a little, though it didn’t come open. As quietly as I could, I moved things away from the back wall, then began running the entirety of both hands over it, palms flat to the wood and fingers splayed. Eventually I did find a little doorknob, lower than you’d expect. It would be more discreet by design, harder to spot. I grasped the knob, giving it an experimental turn, half expecting it to be latched or locked.

To my surprise, it turned fully and the door opened. The creak of the wood sounded out like a thunderclap in the quiet, the dark behind yawning like an endless abyss. I freed my phone out from under my arm, flipping the flash light on so I could press forward. I stepped fully into the passageway, ducking a little to get under the doorframe. _If_ I _had to duck, poor Brahms must half-concuss himself coming in and out._

It occurred to me then that despite how many times I’d watched the film, I still didn’t know the floorplan of the house. I had no idea how to map out where Brahms’ living quarters would be. I resigned myself to a long night as I started forward. After a few steps, I recalled with no small amount of relief that his quarters seemed to be lower in the building, and that there was actually a ground floor entrance to them that he could reach by scaling a ladder. So with that small bit of information to go off of, I set out, flashlight in one hand, fumbling around trying to figure out the right way. I got a little disoriented once or twice, though I never got so turned around that I couldn’t figure out where I was if I stopped long enough to calm down and think. It didn’t help that there was no electricity, and therefore the whole damn place was dark as all fuck. I knew that logically there couldn’t be since no one would be able to wire the walls for it, but it still made finding Brahms’ nesting place difficult. I probably wandered for at least an hour, partially exploring and partially lost.

When I finally made it to a recognizable path, I nearly wept with joy. I wanted to find Brahms’ place, not get stuck. I pressed onwards with determination, finally staggering into his quarters. It was hardly as dim as I imagined, with Christmas lights and fairy lights strung up around the walls and ceiling and overhead lamps hanging downward. A handful of potted plants dotted the living space, giving it a bit more life. A small wash basin sat underneath a mirror hung on one wall, while shelves against the far wall held some of his possessions. The small kitchen table, which he must use to eat at, was devoid of any items. A microwave sat atop the fridge. I checked inside the latter and found the remnants from the last meal and batch of sweets I’d made. The cupboards themselves were mostly barren, though there were small amounts of things that he’d skimmed, presumably so he could take supplies without me noticing: two slices of bread here, an apple there, some crackers and small stores of berries and nuts. It looked like he only took what he could reasonably get away with taking from the main kitchen.

I paused to orient myself, then all but stumbled over to the bed. I found the letter his parents wrote to him— _their suicide note_ , I corrected with a grimace—unfolded and laid atop his nightstand. My eyes scanned over it quickly, a part of me wishing his parents had just _asked_ what I wanted, even if my wish actually _was_ to stay with him. It bugged me that they attempted to choose _for_ someone, for me, for _Violet_ , whose life I had now assumed. With a frustrated exhalation, I suppressed my irritation with them to focus on the task at hand. Brahms obviously wasn’t present, but he had to return at some point. Unlike most other parts of the networks of passageways throughout the house, this was one place he couldn’t avoid.

I flopped down onto his bed next to the doll version of me, probably not as disturbed as someone else might be. I mean, it couldn’t be any weirder than _me_ keeping a doll version of _Brahms_ that I carried around all day, bathed, changed, fed, and put to bed. If he was weird, _I_ was weird (even if this was my job now as much as it was a way to get closer to him). There were no two ways to look at it. I turned the flashlight from my phone off, muted it, and placed it in _do not disturb_ mode, then laid it and my book on the nightstand with the book overtop of it.

I wondered idly why I hadn’t encountered Brahms in the walls on my way here. It didn’t take long before it came to me. Even if he _had_ heard or seen me coming, he was shy. Plus, the man was possibly on the spectrum and _definitely_ more poorly socialized than a man his age should be. Add on the fact that he was attracted to me with the reality of how socially awkward he would be, and it was no wonder why he might stay away if he was aware of my presence inside the walls. I huffed at myself in annoyance, turning onto my side and drawing my legs up toward my chest. Well, there was only one thing to do for my tortured soul: wait for Brahms to come back. If I was going to be here for a while, I might as well be comfortable. I pillowed my arms underneath my head, curled even tighter into myself, and eased into a light sleep.

I was in that same half-asleep state I’d been in before during that time I fell asleep in his old room, floating on the edge of consciousness. Drowsy, warm, surrounded by softness, I could sense Brahms nearby. From the sound of it, he was just entering the room, his footsteps stuttering to a halt in an aborted motion. Like in the film, he didn’t make much sound. While he didn’t gasp, I could hear his breathing, though quiet, become ragged. As I contemplated whether I should just show signs of stirring or sit up, I forced myself into wakefulness, though I kept my breathing slow and even. After a few seconds of consideration, I decided against getting up yet—just for the moment, as a tactical decision—because I wanted to wait and see how Brahms would react.

I didn’t have long to wonder.

His footsteps resumed, hesitant and measured, bringing him closer to where I lay. That only made me hyper-aware of my current state of dress: the towel I’d come in that had both slipped down and ridden up as I slept, now only covering my midsection. The upper edge of the towel just brushed the underside of my breasts, my nipples firmed up from the chill. Meanwhile, the bottom edge of the towel no longer concealed me either, and I could tell without reaching down that I was wet. I continued to wait, restraining all movement. Brahms advanced until he all but loomed over me. Still, I waited, but he seemed content to stare down at me, perhaps unsure of what to do.

_It’s now or never_ , I mused grimly, steeling myself to “wake up” and confront Brahms.

Before I could change my mind or Brahms could sneak away from the room, I went through the motions of stirring, my eyes fluttering open. Brahms stumbled back a step as if he’d been punched in the stomach, clearly shocked and not expecting me to get up just then. I knew I didn’t have time to spare and that he might bolt since he didn’t like being seen. I sat up fully, not making an effort to prevent the towel from dropping away from my body. As it pooled about my hips, I looked into his eyes. His name slipped between my lips before I could stop myself. “Brahms.”

He froze like a deer caught in headlights, giving me a few seconds to take him in as I stood slowly, leaving the towel on the bed behind me. He was even taller than he’d appeared in the film, his hair darker, his eyes more intense. He still wore the porcelain mask on his face. Instead of the white shirt, black pants, suspenders and gray cardigan, he had on a loose set of powder blue pajamas. His soft breathes had transitioned into harsh pants as he returned my stare, his gaze uncertain, his eyes wide. I lifted my hands in the universal gesture of _please stay calm_. He knew the house better than me, and I knew that if he took off I might not ever find him.

We were still within about an arm’s length. I knew he would be the absolute last person to hurt me at that moment, so I felt no reservations when I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my cheek into the front of his shirt. “I knew you were real.” Despite the momentary stiffness of his body in my arms, I felt him loosen up as I nuzzled my check into his chest. “I _knew_ you were real,” I repeated with emphasis. I turned my head so that my lips pressed into his front.

He froze again, but it didn’t last. One of his hands came up to rub slow circles into my back, the other gently cradling the back of my head. “Violet,” he whispered, his voice childlike.

I titled my head to look up at him. “Yes, my prince?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he regarded me. The hand holding my head trailed along the side of it until he cupped my cheek. He seemed to be struggling with what to say. I brought my finger to the lips of his mask. “Shh, it’s okay, we’re okay.” I pressed upward on my tiptoes until I could just barely reach his ear, where I whispered into it. “Can I kiss you?”

His arms around me tightened, but not painfully so. I traced my nose and lips along his exposed throat, where I pressed a soft kiss to his pulse point. His panting only intensified, broken at first by the first audible gasp I’d heard him make. I leaned into him as I kissed a trail to the edge of his mask. I could feel him tremble every time my lips made contact with his skin. When I lifted my hand to gently push at the mask, one of his shot out to stop me. “No, Violet.”

This was the most I’d ever heard him speak, let alone say my name. I bit my lip. I knew he used the mask to cover his scars and burns. I figured he might be self-conscious, but not to this extent. “Not even enough for your lips?” As he deliberated, I kissed along the edge of his mask. 

Suddenly the hand restraining mine let go of me. Before my eyes, I watched him push the edge of the mask up just enough that I could kiss his lips and not much else. I didn’t need to be told twice. One arm moved so that I had it draped around his neck, and then my lips were melting into his, my fingers buried in his hair. What was unmistakably a moan escaped from his mouth, and our close proximity alerted me to his arousal, his growing erection flush with my body.

Brahms was touch starved and hungry for physical affection. I could feel the repressed desperation and relief in the way he returned the kiss, the all-consuming _need_ for direct human contact coupled with his attraction to, and fondness for, me. I was just hungry for Brahms, half-drunk on the sensation of his mouth against mine, of his quick breaths against my skin, of the nearness of his body. I twisted away from our kiss with a small nip to his lips and a gentle tug to his hair, almost giddy. I plucked at the waistband to his pajama bottoms. “It’s been such a long day, Brahms,” I murmured, leaning into him even more and pressing directly against his sensitive cock through his clothes, “Will you be good and take me to bed?” My fingers worked at unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt.

Brahms’ entire body shuddered, a feral sound falling from his lips. He shoved me with far less force than I knew him capable of so that I landed back on his bed. I watched him stand there, trembling, staring, unsure again for all of one moment. Then his hands went to his pants. He grasped the top edge and pushed them down sharply so that they made a puddle of fabric around his ankles. As he stepped out of them, one leg rising to rest on the bed, he gripped the edge of his shirt and yanked it over his head, popping a few buttons that I hadn’t gotten the chance to undo. He was tall, graceful, all long limbs and lean muscle. My eyes traveled downward, over the slightly hairy planes of his chest to his stomach, then further down to the aroused swell of his now-free erection.

There were no words that would truly do his cock justice, and I didn’t want to waste time writing purple prose in my head. It was both thick and long, its girth the equivalent of both of my wrists laid on top of each other. He’d never been circumcised, I noted as I watched a bead of precum form on his tip. His thighs looked powerful, as had his arms. _Gods_ _above_. I knew then that I wanted to fucking consume him, to be consumed _by_ him, for us to lose ourselves in the throes of passion. A single lyric from a song wound its way through my head. ‘ _Sex is art and you’re the muse.’_

While I was caught up in my own head for a moment, Brahms still hovered by the edge of the bed, hesitating. I leaned up on my knees and pulled him to me, conscious of his naked form. I took his hand between my own and slowly guided it to my side, figuring that was a safe place to start. “You won’t hurt me,” I murmured. “I know you won’t. You’re good to me, Brahms. You’re a good prince. _My prince.”_

Brahms whimpered, continuing to use his younger, more innocent-sounding voice, which was a bit disconcerting at the moment, considering we were both naked and he was probably going to raw me within the next five minutes. “I’ve been good?”

I always deduced from the film that Brahms loved to be praised, to be called a “good boy”, to receive attention. And, of course, he was a brat and was _not_ always good. I raised my hand to touch his left cheek, the mask cold underneath my fingertips. “Yes, Brahms, you’ve been good, _so_ good, _such_ a good boy,” I cooed, my voice practically dripping with honey. I trailed my hand along the curve of the mask until I reached his neck again, dragging my fingertips—with just a hint of nail— in a straight path from his neck to his collarbone, then to his chest and stomach, stopping at his waist. He shuddered violently. My voice turned to silk, from dripping with honey to dripping with lust. “Why don’t you show me how much of a good boy you can be?”

Brahms made a strangled sound like he might be choking. His next movements flashed by in a blur. He lunged toward the carefully constructed doll of me that took up space on his bed and threw it onto the floor, then he lunged again, this time for me, knocking us both over. He supported himself with his arms, propping up his body over mine and effectively pinning me against the mattress. _Brat_ , I thought fondly. A wildness had overcome the eyes that looked down at me. I felt no fear, only an answering wildness of my own. Snaking a hand into his hair to resume my gentle tugging didn’t register as a conscious action. My lips found his throat, where I bit him gently without breaking the skin, then sucked softly at the flesh. Brahms let out a low hiss. For a second I worried I hurt him and started to pull away, but then he whined, “More.”

I paused, my hand encircling his shaft but not moving _—waiting_. “What do good boys say, my prince?”

I wasn’t sure I could sound seductive, but Brahms’ eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head with that comment, and he made another strangled sound. “Please, more.” Gods, did hearing him beg like that make me wet, and judging by his reaction, _Brahms_ liked when he begged me, too.

“All right, since you asked nicely…” I indulged him, biting a second area of unblemished skin that I sucked into my mouth and laved with my tongue. The hand around his cock squeezed softly. The combination of the two drew a long, low moan from deep in his throat, different from the first one he released while kissing me. I switched between carefully tugging to sliding my curled fingers along the length of his cock. It twitched in my hand, accompanied by his hips bucking. With one last nip, I let his throat go to kiss up to his ear, pleased to note that the two love bites on his neck would bruise nicely. My hand picked up the pace as I sucked his earlobe between my teeth.

“Violet,” Brahms mewled, his natural tone and pitch emerging. He’d used the other voice so much that it was shocking to hear how deep his voice could go.

I tugged at his hair a bit harder, moving to bite gently at his shoulder with my hand picking up a brutal pace. “What do you need? What do you want? Tell me, Brahms.”

He threw his head back, his words erupting in stutters. “You—I n-n-n-need—I w-w-want—Violet!” He all but thrust into my hand, a copious amount of precum now joining that initial droplet to fully lubricate his head.

When I pulled my hands away, he cried out as if he’d lost something. He gave me a confused, mournful look that quickly morphed into something else when I wiggled into a better position and wound my legs around his waist. I could feel the tip of his cock just brushing my labia, being coated in my own arousal while he smeared some of his own onto me. If I arched just the right way, he’d be inside of me without Brahms moving at all. He seemed to realize this and held still, staring down at me nearly crazed, wanting, unsure again. “Violet?” Somehow it came out as a mixture of his older, more mature voice and his younger, innocent one. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that he might be a virgin, might know the science and practical logistics behind sex but not the intimacy involved.

“Oh, Brahms.” I held his face between my hands, then arched so that he slid in part of the way. That elicited a startled gasp from him, followed by more mewling. “Fuck me, my prince, show me what a good boy you are.”

He canted forward suddenly, thrusting into me nearly—but not quite— to the base. As he sunk into the awaiting warmth, sliding in as easily as a knife cuts butter, my thighs pressing into his sides and our pubic bones touching, we moaned together. There was pressure in my lower abdomen from his cock—thick, long, perfect—pushing in so deeply, not quite too far but oh-so-close. It twitched in anticipation inside of me. Meanwhile Brahms looked almost half-faint. He hunched over me, acting almost as if he thought I might break—or run, more likely—if he returned my touches. Haltingly, he settled a finger over my clit, one hand cupping my breast. He began rolling my nipple between his fingers as he rubbed slow, gentle circles on my clit. He looked to me, open, sincere, and somehow, innocent. “Like this?”

It became immediately clear to me that he knew from watching me touch myself. I almost came then and there, knowing that he’d really _had_ been watching me when I felt his presence. I’d done it where he could see, hoping he would be watching, but knowing I had such a captive audience _did things_. “Yes,” I confirmed, eyes heavily lidded. “Like that. Like when you watched me, but with you inside of me, too.”

His hands faltered, his eyes wide behind his mask. I pulled him down for a kiss, thrusting my hips upward. “It’s okay, Brahms. I knew I was being watched. I felt it. I wanted to be seen.”

That, apparently, was the last straw. He temporarily withdrew his fingers from my clit and nipple to heave my legs higher, off of his sides until my ankles settled in place onto his shoulders. He slipped his fingers back into place just before he exploded into motion, his hips jerking forward. Somehow he pressed even deeper inside of me, the head of his cock kissing a trail of fire that I matched with more gentle pulling of his hair and fingers on his scalp, careful not to gouge any wounds or yank too hard. Even with my legs elevated, Brahms’ lanky body crouched over me, his face close to mine. An unconscious breathy sound left my lips, followed by his name. I arched up toward him again, my mouth finding his. I mumbled more praise to him there, our breath intermingling. “Yes, good, good boy…”

Brahms let out what I can only describe as a growl, disengaging from my kiss to give me a bite of his own. Following my example, he only applied light pressure, panting into my neck. He was beautiful, half-undone, nearly destroyed. I knew he wouldn’t last long this time, and that with all the stimulation, I myself would orgasm soon, but we could make up for lost time later.

Even as the thought crossed my mind, I felt my inner walls tighten and spasm around him. I clutched him to me bodily, using my legs to hold him closer while my arms looped around his neck. He leaned his head down so that our foreheads were touching, the mask cool against my now-flushed bare skin. “Brahms,” I whispered, “Come for me, my prince.”

His arms wrapped around me, his masked face turned and buried into my shoulder as he emitted a keening sound, his movements becoming sloppier but remaining powerful. He only lasted a minute or so more before he came so hard that he trembled, his limbs jerking oddly almost as if he were seizing. He pushed my legs off of his shoulders to lean down and pick me up, crushing me to him through his last few desperate thrusts. He climaxed with a wordless shout, our chests pressed together, his hand still working over my clit. I came again, awash in sensation, with the vague awareness of his cum spilling into me and then overflowing to drip out onto our thighs. He howled, overwhelmed, his embrace like iron, weeping my name into my shoulder. “Good boy, Brahms,” I whispered into his ears, kissing him yet again.

With a gasp like someone breaking the surface of the water, his shaking lessened and his hold loosened. He knelt there, breathing ragged amongst the remnants of tremors, with me half-in his lap. Once he fully finished, our thighs, and now our lower stomachs, were completely coated, slicked with cum, a situation that only worsened as more of it leaked out of me. He hadn’t spoken much, but he did then. “I was good? Really?” He seemed either pleased or excited, his eyes shining hopefully.

I nodded, muttering as I nuzzled into his chest. “Yes, very good.” I kissed his sweaty chest, right over his heart. Now that I had my wits about me again, I noticed that the towel on my hair had come off during sex, and now lay on his pillow behind me. Internally I winced at the thought of the bed-head would surely have, but it was a small price to pay, and nothing a little bit of conditioner and patience wouldn’t cure. I trailed my hands up and down his back, tracing his spine with my fingers.

He gave a pleased hum, reaching over to stroke my hair. “I’m glad.” I was starting to fall in love with the thick, deep version of his voice, to savor what it actually sounded like. Instead of sounding plaintive and innocent, he sounded mature and earnest. “I’ve wanted…oh, Violet, I’ve wanted to see you for so long, _really_ see you.” His voice dropped then, and he cradled me close to his chest as he whispered thickly into my ear, “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to touch you, to hold you.” His hands splayed across my back, his voice dropping even lower as he added, “To make love to you.” I felt a kiss to the top of my head. I stayed silent, content to let him say what he needed to. “But I couldn’t—I didn’t know how—” Brahms broke off sharply, exhaled, then switched to a last few soft, pleading words before falling silent. “Please don’t leave me, Violent.”

I gently pushed him back so I could look into his face—or what I could see of it. His eyes shone with all of his emotions: desperation, hope, dread, fear, longing, loneliness, and affection. Not only did he not want to be left alone, he wanted me to stay with him. I took his face between my hands, pausing to start directly into his eyes. Then I eased his mask off before he could process what I was doing and protest. He flinched, withdrawing from me. He moved to the far side of the bed, turning away to look at the far wall. I set his mask down on his nightstand next to my book and phone. I scooted over to him, hand on his lower arm. “Brahms—”

“I asked you not to, Violet.” His words expressed his hurt. 

I bit my lip, gently resting my hand on his chin. “I know, Brahms, but please look at me. You don’t have to be afraid, I promise.”

He stubbornly refused, his jaw clenching under my fingers. “I can’t do that.”

My thumb stroked delicately along his jawline. “Why?” I thought I knew why, but I had to be sure, and I had to let Brahms lead us there.

“Because then _you’ll_ be afraid. You’ll see, and I don’t want you to be afraid of me…or disgusted. I don’t want you to leave me.”

I sighed inaudibly. Rather than replying, I crawled into his lap again, dropping kisses on his shoulder and collarbone. I worked my way up to his face, pressing closer to him with my hand returned to his hair. Despite being upset, he almost instantly melted when I touched him, apparently completely unable to resist. _Well, that ought to be useful later,_ I mused wryly. His reaction allowed me enough give in his stiff posture to tip his face toward me. He seemed to know what I was doing, his earlier fear and dread still evident in his gaze, but he didn’t move as I studied him, carefully cataloguing the swath of burn scars covering half of his face and even affecting one of his eyes. He was still quite handsome by conventional standards, even with scars others would consider unsightly. He fit “tall, dark, and handsome” to a T, his features striking.

I overbalanced him so that we both tipped over again, laying on top of him so I could look at him. “I’m not afraid,” I told him firmly. I caught his lips with mine, dragging him into a long kiss. The fingers of one hand tracked up and down my spine again, the other at the junction of my shoulder and neck. Between our tangle of limbs, I could feel him getting hard again—or maybe he’d never gone totally soft. I couldn’t be sure. Either way, I ignored it in favor of breaking free to delivering a follow-up battery of short kisses to what some might call the “ruined” half of his face, all over his cheek, along his jawline, at the corner of his mouth and eye. “I’m not afraid,” I repeated. “There’s nothing wrong with you or how you look, Brahms. And I’m not leaving you.”

He encircled me with his arms, rolling over so that we were both on our sides facing each other, his burned cheek tucked in toward his sheets. “Do you mean that?”

I leaned forward to plant a kiss on the tip of his nose. “I promise you, Brahms, that I have no intentions of leaving. You’re stuck with me now. Permanently.”

His lips shaped into a lopsided grin and he tugged me closer so I lay completely flush with him, body to body. His feet slid against mine, his lips fluttering across my forehead. He laughed breathlessly. “I can live with that.”

I grinned, spotting an emerging sense of humor amidst the shy, quiet personality I was used to as well. I traced his lips with the pad of my pinky finger, mesmerized by the simple sensation. “Good, because if you thought for one second that I could stay out there with that doll when I know you’re in here, you were wrong. I’m all yours now.” I booped his nose at the end, much to his amusement. My grin then grew wicked as I took him in then, lying there in rapt attention. “And you’re all mine.”


End file.
